


Antique Dreams

by Destiny_Apocalypse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Family Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destiny_Apocalypse/pseuds/Destiny_Apocalypse
Summary: Clan Lavellan has a much darker history than anyone living remembers anymore. But there is power hidden there, if you know the right demons.





	1. Solas

**Author's Note:**

> Dalish and Demons and Family Secrets, oh my!

The Inquisitor and her forces returned from Adamant Fortress with much fanfare. Not even minutes after the arrival the entire hold was exchanging stories about the Divine herself leading them out of the Demon’s trap under Andraste’s guidance, each story more outlandish than the last.

The last week had been quite busy, and spent compiling reports, notes and sketches from their physical visit into the fade. Some would be sent to the Inquisition’s advisors, while the most useful would be encrypted and used to continue his studies on how the veil had been affected over the years since its installation. Tedious work to be sure, but it kept his mind busy when his attention inevitably wandered towards the doors that led to the grand hallway.

They remained closed.

It was only until the stacks of parchment and scrolls threatened to spill over the edge of the desk that he put down his quill. The lone candle at the desk flickered and finally went out as it had burned down all the way to the brass candlestick holder.There was still a bit of light from the lamps hanging in the rotunda, but it had grown quite dark as the meager light that trickled in from the upper levels had waned. Perhaps a break was in order.

Rising from his desk with a slight creak in his knees, he wiped his ink stained hands on a linen before ascending the stairs in the middle of the rotunda, seeking out the young woman cataloguing books at her desk.  

“Serah,” Helisma greeted him, face bland and devoid of any flicker of emotion or personality. “How may I assist you this evening?”  

His eyes flickered towards the brand on her forehead. _Barbaric and wasteful._

“Lady Derington,” he responded with measured politeness. “I have a requisition request for some rare tomes that might assist the Inquisition in matters of the arcane. May I ask that you pass them along to the Inquisitor for approval?”

“Of course, Ser,” Helisma plucked the parchment from his hands, scanning the list of books. “Ah, I believe one of these titles is already on the premises. I shall inquire to the First Enchanter and see if she can spare her copy of _On Silver Cords_ for your research _._ ”

“I would be most appreciative if you would do so,” Solas nodded, tucking his hands behind his back. Helisma turned back to her work, but he lingered yet.

“Was there more you needed, Serah?” She inquired.

“Incidentally, have you seen the Inquisitor recently? Since...our return from the Western Approach.”

“She has not come by to see me personally,” Helisma responded. “But a few hours ago I believe she passed through the libraries in order to go to the rookery to give a report to the Spymaster.”

“Ah.”

“Did you have another inquiry?”

“No, thank you. I appreciate your assistance in the matter; but I will leave you to your duties.”

“Very well then.”

He turned on his heel, heading back down the steps into his study. The disappointment that seized his chest was a surprise as much as it was unwelcome. If she had passed through the libraries then she had taken a path that deliberately avoided his own in the rotunda. He recalled their last interaction, if it could have even been called that; a day’s journey from Skyhold. She had been distant and quiet the whole trek back but most who returned from the Fortress had been similarly shaken, so he had not thought much of it when she escaped from camp to sleep in the trees with a pipe full of elfroot.

He had not thought it was about him, personally. And yet now…

He recalled the words of the demon in the nightmare realm. The words it spoke to him had been of an ancient dialect that no Dalish would be able to speak fluently. He was reasonably certain she hadn’t understood the full message it had taunted him with.

And yet…

Was it possible she knew? Distanced herself, because of the superstitious lies that she’d been fed since childhood? When she finally opened those doors again, would it be with a small army of soldiers behind her, ordered to bring in her people’s most reviled of traitors?

Surely not. His imagination was running wild from lack of rest.  

 

When he reached his desk once more, he hesitated. He _had_ been working all day, and was growing weary of sitting at the desk and glancing at the doors every few minutes. Casting his gaze over to the walls, he looked over the preliminary sketch he’d drawn in charcoal, planning out the composition that would highlight the Inquisitor’s accomplishments at Adamant.

Drawing out some of his artistic inspiration to complete the piece was proving to be more difficult than he thought. The materials for the plaster and necessary pigments were all prepared for him to complete the piece; still unopened in the crates that had been shipped straight from Antiva. With one final glance at the unfinished wall, he snatched his overcoat from its hanging spot and stepped out onto the battlements. Perhaps some fresh air was overdue to clear his troublesome thoughts.

The breeze was crisp as it filled his lungs, and while the chill that settled through him was not helped by his woolen coat, it did not bother him. To feel the elements on his skin once more, rather than the imitation provided by the fade was...exhilarating. A simple pleasure to hang on to; a small reminder however fragile, that he still existed. He was still _here._

He walked the battlements; arms clasped behind his back and his mind turbulent. Inquisition soldiers and attendants passed, nodding politely at him in deference to his station as arcane advisor to the Inquisitor, but otherwise steered clear of the mage. A few curious elves that had made the pilgrimage to the mountains eyed him curiously, but too kept their distance and he paid them little mind.

Instead he thought of the Inquisitor, the feel of her lips and skin against his and heartbeat against his chest when she reached for him in the fade. Conversations late at night until the fire in the hearth had dwindled down to nothing, talking about anything from his journeys into the fade to the varieties of elfroot that the Dalish cultivate. The worry, guilt and fear that gnawed at his heart when she disappeared during the avalanche that buried Haven. Her hand on his arm when they spoke on the balconies. The distance in her eyes after they touched solid ground again at Adamant Fortress.

 

Her lips. Her skin. Her heartbeat against his chest.

Her lips.

 

His face felt warm, but the the chill was still strong enough to cut straight through to his bones as the wind began to turn unpleasantly frigid. Rain drops splattered onto his scalp, making him shiver when they slid underneath the neckline of his tunic.

The stronghold’s taven lay just ahead a few paces. He had only visited once previously during its grand opening, where he had partaken in a grossly watered down ale and hid a smile as the Inquisitor turned down drink after drink. She seemed to prefer sitting by The Iron Bull, most likely due to the fact she could easily hide behind his bulk in the corner of the tavern.

The serving maid had come over with a goblet of wine, and he looked up to catch Ashanna’s eyes peering over at him with a hint of a smile, before she ducked back behind the qunari.

He had tasted artisan wines that had taken hundreds of years to curate, but that evening he enjoyed the sour Fereldan swill more than he had any right to.

 

Music and voices spilled out from the tavern looming ahead of him. It seemed a good place as any to wait out the storm.

Walking through the doors he shrugged off his damp overcoat; the roaring fire in the center of the building warming him instantly. The tavern was bustling with people, most likely escaping the poor weather outside.

“Chuckles, I never expected to find you back here. Come in to check out the festivities?”

Solas glanced over to find Varric at a table near the entrance; notebook and quill in hand.

“Festivities? I was not aware of one. What is the occasion being celebrated?”

He directed his attention to where the largest cluster of bodies were and noticed that some event indeed seemed to be in the process of being set up. The Iron Bull and his Chargers appeared to be organizing the majority of it, with the dwarven sapper balancing precariously on Bull’s horns to hang a string of colorful flowers onto the wooden posts. The others busied themselves by sampling a variety of alcoholic beverages while the bartender watched with distaste.

“Those two elves of Tiny’s are getting hitched tomorrow,” Varric chuckled, picking up a smoking pipe next to him and puffing.

“I thought you had given up smoking, Master Tethras?” Solas observed, taking a seat at his table. Varric raised his eyebrows slightly as he did so, but otherwise did not comment on it, instead blowing out a perfect ring of smoke.

“I’m not smoking elfroot, if that’s what you mean. Need to keep my head clear with all this shit going down. Just good old dwarven tobacco for me, from now on.”

“I see. So there is to be a wedding tomorrow then, I gather?”

“Yeah; or whatever you elves call it. I think Dalish called in a bonding ceremony? All I know is that I am here for young love. And the open bar,” he guffawed.

“How accomodating for you,” Solas responded with a hint of a smile on his face.

“Speaking of young love, you and Ashes, eh?”

The smile died on his face.

“I assure you-”

“Don’t try to deny it, Chuckles. Everyone knows you and the Inquisitor have been making doe eyes at each other ever since we got to Skyhold.”

“Everyone does now? And I am sure _you_ had nothing to do with spreading those rumors.”

“Gossip travels fast in a place like this.” He took a deep drag on the pipe before continuing. “And besides, I think it’s great for you kids. Everyone needs a bit of distraction for the better with ancient blighted magisters running amok.”

“It is a private matter, child of the stone,” He responded stiffly.

Varric laughed again at the dour look on his face.

“Chuckles, please, I’m trying to help you! She’s going to be here for the ceremony tomorrow, right? All I’m saying is, it’s a very _romantic_ opportunity for you both. Consider it.”

_“She turns, embarrassed by her boldness. No, no no. I cannot allow her to feel that way; skin against mine, a burst of heat that I haven’t felt in ages. I want, I want, I want-”_

Solas closed his eyes. “Cole, that is unnecessary.”

The boy materialized at their table, prompting Varric to exhale all his smoke at once.

“Andraste’s tits, kid!”

“That is not my name. My name is Cole.”

The spirit turned, head cocked towards Solas and barely visible beneath the wide brim of his hat.

“The word hurts her. She tries to use the fog to keep it out of her head, but it doesn’t work. It burns and twists in her heart like it did from before.”

“Cole. Thank you, but this is not a pain you can help.”

“She wants what you want. I can help you both.”

Varric cleared his throat.

“It looks like Cabot is pulling out the imported bottles. Poor sod doesn’t know anything about good dwarven ales; I’d better go help him out. I’ll leave you two to...whatever this is.”

“I will take my leave as well,” Solas decided. Coming in here was a mistake. “Be well, Cole.”

“You are both hurting, and I could not help. I am sorry, Solas.”

The room seemed unnaturally loud all of a sudden and his heart thumped hard in his chest as he reached for his overcoat, shrugging it on even as the spirit faded from view.

The rain was coming down heavily by the time he pushed open the hard wooden doors, obscuring the form that collided with him.

He could tell who it was as soon as the air crackled loudly with a surge of rift magic pushing against his chest. A softly worded apology merely increased the tension between them as she recoiled back, nearly slipping backwards on the rain slicked mud. A long moment stretched between them as both merely stared, unwilling to make the first move. When she clutched her left hand and winced as another ripple of magic surged out of the anchor, he broke the silence.

“Inquisitor, the anchor is hurting you. I can assist you with the pain, if you will allow it.”

She remained quiet, hunched beneath her cloak and pain visible in her stance.  Solas extended his hand and waited.

When she grasped his hand with her good one to pull herself up straight, he released the breath he had not been aware he was holding.

“We should look at your mark outside of this rain. Let us head back into the fortress, shall we?”

Ashanna nodded, mouth pulled tight as she clutched her left wrist closely towards her, following him back into the path that lead to his office in the rotunda.

 

When they shed their rain soaked cloaks, he indicated towards the glove that was currently glowing from the light spilling from the anchor.

“May I?” he asked gently.

She looked at him for a long moment, searching for something in his gaze, though as for what he could not say. Still, he kept his distance, allowing her to make the first move. Instead his attention lingered at the redness of her eyes and the dark bags underneath.

“Go ahead,” she said gruffly, pulling the leather glove from her hand. Green light spilled out over the both of them, harsh and intense. The anchor crackled and sparked; and he could see the pain it was causing in the tremble of her arm each time it reacted.

“Has it been like this since we returned to Skyhold?” He asked mildly, keeping his voice neutral.

“Yes,” she inhaled sharply as he applied pressure to her wrist, testing the flow of magic leaking from his mark.

“My apologies. The anchor is intrinsically linked to you and your mental state. You recall when this occurred before, yes?”

“I do.”

“Traveling through the Demon’s realm in the fade would have been traumatic for anyone. I...am here if you need to talk about what occurred there, _vhenan_.”

Ashanna pulled her hand free of his grasp suddenly, rubbing her palm vigorously with her thumb. Her brows furrowed heavily, the green light casting harsh shadows on her face.

“Are you sure it isn’t _you_ that needs to talk about something, Solas?”

“Pardon?” His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, his chest suddenly pounding so loudly he could barely hear his own words.

“ _Dirth ma, harellan?”_

He had heard the word so many times in the fade that he thought it had ceased to affect him. Certainly he had been able to shrug it off when taunted by the demon. But hearing the word come out of her mouth, directed at him was a different matter altogether.

“You are no Dalish. Why would it say such a thing to you?” Her stare was intense, amber eyes blazing and jaw set defiantly as he clenched his fingers tightly into his palm.

“I...” He trailed off, uncertain. She did not know the truth and the reality of that filled him with a confusing mix of elation and disappointment. “It is a...personal matter, of which I assure you has no bearing on my role or duties in this organization.”

“I don’t give two halla shits if it affects the Inquisition, Solas,” she snapped, standing up from the chair so quickly it knocked over several stacks of papers on his desk. He paid them no mind; staring only at the trembling of her jaw. “If you cannot be honest with me then I’m done here. Thank you for your help.”

The door slammed shut before he could collect himself enough to speak.


	2. Solas

 

He poured the tea with a shaking hand into his small clay cup, brewed to the exact specifications that he had requested of the kitchen staff. The taste was bitter and unpleasant; Lavender and chamomile did not make for an enjoyable beverage. He was not drinking it for the taste however, but hoping that the mixture of sedative properties and relaxants would ease his turbulent mind into sleep.

_ Dirth ma, harellan _ . 

After draining the contents he slammed the cup onto to the small wooden table that made up one of the few pieces of furniture in the small, dim little corner room he had claimed as his own. The force shook the small table and cracked the cup, rendering it unusable. With a ragged sigh he sat heavily onto his cot and lay back to stare at the cold, dull stone of his ceiling. 

The word  _ harellan  _ would of course be known to the Dalish, but he had not anticipated it would cause her to lash out in such a way. Something very traumatic occurred to her in childhood over this and no doubt the demon had used that word quite deliberately to prod at her defenses and sow discontent among her group. 

Perhaps it was better to end things right here, before things went too far. 

He dragged a hand down over his face, feeling every last one of his many, many years in that moment. It had already gone too far, for him at least. She had rooted deep into his heart despite his best efforts to harden it to this dull world. It would be better for both of them if she had second thoughts and ended things here. He could continue what he had begun-

He squeezed his eyes shut, interrupting the thought before it could lead down a place he did not want to visit at this time. Instead, he focused on a series of meditative breathing exercises to clear his mind while the tea worked its relaxants into his system. It took some time, but eventually his mind slipped away from his body and into the welcoming embrace of the Fade. 

 

He found himself already in an existing dream. How curious. Usually he was the one to seek out interesting dreams and memories that were lurking in these ancient walls. 

Here the libraries of Skyhold were dark and deserted, with not even a curious wisp nearby. No light filtered in through the windows, and no sign of activity could be seen. Not a memory, then, but simply a dream. The torches on the wall were unlit, and he cast his hand over them to give the room some light. 

They did not respond. Frowning, he repeated the motion, and focused on the torch, willing it to take flame.  It continued to remain unlit. The sense of  _ wrongness  _ intensified in his gut. He had yet to discover a dream in this age that he could not shape to his will, with the lack of dreamers in the modern age. 

He wandered the dark halls with the light from a conjured wisp following along, lighting empty bookcase after bookcase and down the steps to the rotunda until he found himself in the great hall. A darkness permeated the area, that even the wisps of light by his side did nothing to abate. It seemed to focus on the Inquisitor’s throne. When he approached it, the darkness rippled and  _ moved.  _

A presence then, but of what nature he could not say as it darted from the throne and through one of the doors as if seeking to escape him. He followed, keeping the trailing darkness in the edges of his vision as they twisted through hallways and numerous flights of stairs, deep into the depths of Skyhold. Any other time and he would have altered the dream to trap the entity, but it remained stubbornly and bafflingly impervious to his attempts. Had he grown so weak he could not outwit a simple demon? 

When they reached the kitchens, it simply vanished, along with the dream. 

 

Solas sat up, blinking rapidly as his mind adjusted to its sudden exit from the fade. Sunlight streamed through the tiny window, indicating that he had slept until mid morning. Sitting up, he untwisted the ram’s wool blanket that had wound itself around his legs, shivering when his exposed skin met the crisp mountain air. 

There was something powerful and unknown lurking here,, and he would need to assess the situation for any potential threats to the Inquisition, or to his own plans. Perhaps one of the Inquisition’s new occupants had attracted a powerful demon. 

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, rattling through the room. He eased out of bed with only a slight creak in his bones, stepping into his leggings. The door rapped again while he fumbled with the laces on his breeches, of which he just barely managed to secure before another knock took what little patience he had left. Not bothering with the rest of his clothing, he opened the door to one of the ambassador’s messengers; a small, elven woman with wide eyes that got even wider as she took in his current state of undress. 

Leona was her name, he recalled. She had assisted with delivering some of the items he had requested of the Inquisitor. 

“Messere, the lady Ambassador requests an audience with you at your earliest convenience,” she recited woodenly, as if she had practiced the line over and over before coming to his door. Her eyes were focused on the door frame, not daring to move over an inch. 

“Thank you for the message, Leona. I will answer the summons as soon as I am able.” 

Her face flushed when he called her by name, and she faltered for a moment, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. 

“Was there anything else that Lady Montilyet required of me?”  he inquired after a moment. 

“A-ah! No, that was it. My pardons for disturbing your sleep, messere!” He nodded towards her and she curtsied and bowed away, face still red from the interaction. 

 

He locked his door firmly behind him and made his way through the rotunda to the great hall, seeking out the Ambassador’s office. Petitioners were lining up near the grand dais, and a flurry of activity was already taking place due to the late morning hour. Again, that feeling of unease washed over him; it was quite unusual for a dream to occupy his mind for so long without his consent.

When he pushed open the door that led to Josephine’s office, he found her already quite busy. Another servant; a young human male clutching a tray of food as he leaned so far back from the ambassador Solas wondered how he  retained balance. The look on her face was uncharacteristically furious. 

“Tomme, I discussed the matter of the Navarran dignitary’s dietary requirements with you yesterday in private. What did I mention to be expressly forbidden from his meals?”

The poor boy winced, bottom lip trembling. 

“Almonds, Tomme. What do you suppose the count’s pastry was covered with?” 

The boy shook; platter rattling. “My lady; I must have forgotten. I… don’t remember that conversation with you. I just grabbed what the cook had made this morn.”

Josephine sighed heavily. “I placed a great deal of trust in you. It seems that trust was misplaced, and I will be informing the steward of this to ensure that it does not occur again. Understood?” 

“Yes, milady,” he sounded truly pitiful, and a pang of sympathy swept through Solas as he watched the boy struggle not to spill tears. “It won’t happen again.” The boy turned on his heel and nearly plowed directly into Solas, before catching himself and running out the door. 

“Ah, Solas!” Josephine turned and greeted him with a toothy smile that was just a little wide to be genuine. She seemed flustered that he had watched her disciplining the child. “Thank you for arriving so quickly to my request. I am sorry that you had to witness that.”

“I hope your Nevarran dignitary suffered no ill consequences from the food we served him.” 

Josephine pinched the bridge of her nose. “He is not happy at all and is quite eager to make that…vocal. I suppose I cannot blame him, given that his face has swollen to three time its size, but the doctor tells me he will survive and there is no immediate danger.”  

“A pity it did not swell his mouth shut, though. I do imagine it could have turned out much worse. Now, did you require my expertise?” 

“I do have a request, but it is of a sensitive issue. Please, take a seat while I explain?” 

He obliged her request, pulling out one of the ornate plush chairs recently shipped from Val Royeaux before sitting himself. 

“You and the Inquisitor returned from Adamant fortress barely a week ago. The reports that I received were unbelievable to say the least.” 

“Do you doubt the authenticity of our experience?” 

“Oh, not at all! It is merely, well, you must admit journeying into the Fade itself is not something that I expected to find. But there were so many reports from different people I cannot deny the veracity of what happened. No, my concerns are more for the Inquisitor herself, since you’ve returned.”

“Ah. That is understandable. She has been…troubled.” 

“She has not been the same since you returned from Adamant.” Josephine agreed, running the feather of a quill between her fingers. “I am accustomed to some of her isolationist behaviors by now, but it has begun to interfere with her duties. I sent some of Orlais’ top dance instructors to her quarters to begin her instruction on the Orlesian waltz, but she refused to answer the door. The kitchen staff tells me that they are bringing back entire trays of food from her rooms as well, uneaten, and Master Dennet informs me he’s caught her sleeping in the stables with that dracolisk on several occasions since.”

“This is behavior she has displayed before, in times of stress,” Solas pointed out. “It took an entire month for her to grow used to sleeping in the quarters provided by the Inquisition. She is merely falling back on habits that comfort her.” 

“I worry it is more than that. I discussed the matter with Cullen and he brought up some concerns that were frankly…disturbing. I am unsure how to proceed and it is why I asked for your council.” 

It was not difficult to guess what Cullen would find concerning about the events that occurred at Adamant Fortress. 

“You worry she has been possessed?” 

Josephine tapped her quill on the desk a few times before responding.

“We have not seen someone travel into the Fade and back since the times of ancient Tevinter and have no idea what the side effects are of such a journey. You were there with her Solas, I’m just trying to ensure that no harm has come to our Inquisitor so we can best provide assistance for what she needs.” She paused, giving him a knowing look. “You have helped her before in the past, and you two have fostered a strong professional relationship since then. Are our fears unfounded?” 

“I suspect her behavior is linked to more personal causes, than demonic. I know that the anchor has been causing her a great deal of distress since she left the Fade.” 

“Can you not assist her with it? The Orlesian ball is only weeks away, and we have so much to prepare.” 

“I…” He hesitated, remembering their last conversation. “I will do what I can.” 

The relief on Josephine’s face was palpable. “Thank you, I knew I could count on you.” 

Seeking her out would be a simple matter. The anchor was intrinsically linked to him and his power, and over short distances he could sense its presence. He followed the trail of his old magic outside the castle to the stables, where he found the Inquisitor rubbing her dracolisk’s scales with an oiled cloth. The creature let out a hideous sound of affection, trying to push its face into her shoulder while she shoved back to get at the scales under its head. It complied, but not without another ghastly screech. 

Ashanna’s eyes flickered to him as he approached, before returning to her task. 

“Hello.” Her voice was small and rough. Tired sounding. It was hard not to notice the dark circles under her eyes.  

But she was speaking to him, so a better response than he had expected, in all honesty. 

“I apologize for disturbing you, Inquisitor.” He folded his arms behind him, keeping some distance between them. 

“It’s okay,” she mumbled. 

Silence stretched between them for a full several minutes, both contemplating the other quietly. Finally, she spoke again. 

“Can you take over so I can clip his claws?” 

He nodded and accepted the rag when she tossed it over. She turned to retrieve a set of shears and sat in a pile of hay, pulling the lizard’s clawed foot into her lap. It let out an indignant squawk that turned into a rumbled purr when Solas picked up where Ashanna had left off, rubbing the oiled cloth across its scales. It seemed to like the sensation of it, though he did not dare to go near the head as the Inquisitor had done. He valued his fingers far too much. 

They worked together in silence, other than the occasional squawk from the dracolisk and the sound of clippers coming from below. His task was not easy, the scales were dull and hard to polish, and full of sharp points that poked him even through the cloth. Still there was something quite comforting about being able to collaborate in a shared task in companionable silence. 

He watched her, and the practiced ease at which she worked and moved around the claws. Her hand sweeping her hair behind an ear, only for it to fall back a moment later. The claw marks on her leathers, the faded scent of burnt elfroot that clung to her clothing. Once he found the scent of it distasteful, but now it had become almost comforting. 

The slope of her neck, and the trail of freckles that wound all the way down to disappear underneath her neckline. He idly wondered how far down they actually went. 

When she straightened from the pile of clippings from the last foot, the creature’s scales were gleaming and polished. 

“Such a handsome boy you are now!” Ashanna exclaimed, clutching its face against hers as she peppered it with kisses. It toed the dirt and snorted, clearly pleased with the attention. The small pang of jealousy that ran through him was as undignified as it was unwelcome. How low his fortunes, to be jealous of this dreadful creature. 

“Until the next pile of dung that it trods through, in any case,” he muttered. 

“Ignore the rude man, Inrel,” she purred, scratching the rough, patchy skin between its scales. But there was no malice in her voice, and the gleam in her eyes was of humor. With a heavy sigh and fond pat on his backside, she led the lizard back to its pen and latched it securely before addressing him again. 

“My advisors sent you, I imagine.” The tired look had returned to her face as she reared up to her full height to address him. The fact that she only reached his chest did not deter the furrow in her brows. 

“They had concerns to your well being. Concerns I share, for what it's worth.”

She lowered her eyes at that, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“I am still upset.” 

“I know,” he said gently.  

“It’s hard,” she started, a small tremble in her voice. “To ask for help when everything inside you is constantly screaming.”  

“I know that as well.” 

She exhaled, hugging her arms close to herself. “I haven’t slept more than a couple hours a night. I get no rest when I sleep. And…” Her voice broke. 

“You can tell me,” he urged gently. 

“I wake up drained. Physically. Magically. You know, that feeling when you’ve been casting magic for hours on end? And then the pain from my hand it...it’s gotten worse. Sometimes I cannot get out of bed for hours because of it.” 

Solas frowned. “Do you remember your trips to the Fade?”

“I remember nothing.” 

“Will you permit me to help? Sleep troubles are my area of expertise.” 

“I…alright,” she responded after a slight pause. 

“I will seek you out in the Fade when we both have retired. It may be easier if we are in the same room when we fall asleep. Shall I meet you in your quarters?”

“No, I’ll come to yours,” she said quickly.

Solas blinked. “My room is quite small, and probably not the best-“

Ashanna waved her hand dismissively. “It will be fine,” she protested. 

“If that is your decision, then I suppose it will have to do. Now, it is late morning and I have heard that you have been skipping meals. May I persuade you to eat before your next task?” 

“I will at the bonding ceremony tonight. Dalish promised there would be traditional Dalish food served. I’d rather that then another bowl of that mushy pulp of turnip porridge the kitchen keeps sending me every morning.” 

“It is a Fereldan delicacy, so I hear,“ Solas said with a small smile. 

“Fen’harel take their tasteless vegetable mush straight to the Void where it belongs,” she swore on her way out of the stables, leaving him alone with the creature. 

Solas turned to find the dracolisk with its head hanging over the top of its enclosure, staring at him as if being witness to some grand tragedy. 

“I don’t want them either,” he informed it. 

 

Despite very little being resolved or communicated, he could not help but feel his spirits lifted after their interaction. It allowed him to continue his work on the fresco, making the final preparations to lay out the plaster and begin the actual painting. So he spent his remaining planning out the palettes for the piece, and mixing the appropriate colors that would make up the final composition. 

His mind wandered, as it often did during such repetitious tasks. Were his disturbing dreams and Ashanna’s own sleep troubles perhaps related? Her reactions in the Fade were strong enough to trigger the anchor and drain her mana, something he had never come across before in the modern age. She was not a Dreamer, but the anchor allowed her to manipulate the Fade in a way very similarly to one. 

Even still, any dream of hers was still one that he could exert his will over, and the one he had found himself in had remained impervious to his attempts. He had yet to meet a mortal that had such an ability, so unless there were ancient elves eluding him in the fortress, that left little other choice. 

Cullen’s fears of demonic activity may not have been quite so unfounded after all. 

When the chatter on the floors above began to die down for the evening, he finally stood from the work that had kept him occupied all afternoon, wiping the splattered pigment from his hands with a rag. By his estimation it should be dusk about now; too late to begin the actual painting as it would need to be completed in one session and require more light than that offered by the rotunda’s meager torches.  

He could call for a simple meal for the evening and get to work on some of the books that Helisma had delivered to his desk, but Ashanna’s earlier words echoed in his mind, and he headed not towards the kitchens but outdoors and down the stone path that led to the tavern. 

“Do my eyes deceive me? Our Fade advisor, finally stepping away from his dusty books. And to take time to celebrate young love, of all things.” A familiar voice rang out from behind him, light and teasing in tone. 

He slowed his gait, allowing the spymaster to catch up with him and flash an amused smile. She had forgone her normal hooded armor in favor of a dress robe that made her look like a chantry mother.  

“I am not some terrible miser that detests the idea of people finding happiness together, despite what you have heard.” he protested lightly, putting his arms behind his back as they walked.

“That is good to hear. Especially as weddings have  _ such _ a way of bringing people together and reminding them of who is really important to them, wouldn’t you agree?”

“As you say, Spymaster.” 

She winked at him slyly before pushing ahead to navigate through the crowds of revelers that were spilling out of the front of the tavern, kicked out for being too inebriated and disruptive for the ceremony. 

He followed Leliana into the tavern and was immediately beset by people dancing, feasting, and generally enjoying the festivities. A cacophony of music from various sources assaulted his ears, along with the flurry of a hundred conversations happening at once. He had never seen the tavern as busy as it was now, not even during its opening as it seemed the entirety of Skyhold had shown up to witness the event. 

The two intended sat together, faces flushed from drink at the head of the wide table that had been set up in the center of the tavern and surrounded by their fellow Chargers, with Bull taking up a seat at the end, beaming down at everyone like some proud father. He supposed he was, in a way. 

“Red’s here! We can get started!” The Iron Bull’s voice cut through the rabble, pounding his mug on the hardwood and sloshing alcohol all over the table and directly into Grim’s plate of food. 

Solas let his eyes roam the crowd, until they landed on the small form of the Inquisitor, tucked away in the corner of the tavern. She had changed out of her usual tunic and leathers for the occasion, and had opted for a simple wrap of Dalish design. Sera was sitting with her, enjoying herself immensely if the pile of empty mugs was any indication. Her eyes narrowed as Solas approached, arching her back like an angered cat. 

“Keep walking, baldie,” she hissed. Ashanna sat up, placing her hand on her arm gently. 

“It’s fine, Sera.”

“You two are...ugh. I’m not sitting with  _ him  _ tonight, yeah?” She got up and left the table with a slight stagger, but not before miming the action of shooting an arrow at him. He ignored it. 

“She’s kind of a mean drunk, don’t take it personally,” Ashanna said. 

“I’m quite sure in Sera’s mind, it is  _ always  _ personal with me,” he sighed. “She is...beside herself.” 

“She’s just doing the best she can, like the rest of us.” 

“As you say,  _ vhenan.”  _ The endearment slipped out without a thought, and he froze for a moment before glancing back towards her. Ashanna had her eyes trained onto what appeared to be a very interesting knot in the wood of the table, but otherwise did not comment.  

A hush settled over the tavern, prompting the two to look up. Dalish and Skinner took spots in the middle of the tavern, hand in hand in front of Leliana who beamed at the two of them. 

“The night is young, but I think it’s a good time to get started now. I understand you had vows of your own that you wished to exchange?” 

“Aye,” Skinner said in her gruff accent, turning towards her intended. “Dalish, fighting beside you has been the greatest thing I have known in my life so far. Anyone that threatens you will be the target of my knives and never see the light of day again.”

A chorus of cheers went through the Charger’s table, many of them pounding their mugs on the table in approval. 

“Skinner,” her partner smiled, emotion as thick on her tongue as her dalish accent. “ _ Andruil enaste var aravel. _ Your hunt is my hunt: together we are stronger than one. I will be your steady arm, and I vow we shall not waver.”

Solas’ attention was momentarily broken when a hand slipped into his from under the table. He looked over at Ashanna, but her attention was firmly on the two elves exchanging vows. A simple gesture, and yet his heart swelled at the touch. 

Leliana turned towards Skinner. “Do you take her as your wife, Skinner Lavioux of the Val Royeaux Alienage?” 

“I swear unto the maker and the Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.” 

“And you Din’alsaranish of Clan Sengalen, do you take her as your wife to cherish above all others?” 

To Leliana’s credit, she did not miss a beat on the pronunciation. 

“By Elgar’nan’s fury, I shall protect her until the end of my days.” 

“Then I am honored to announce you two married in the eyes of the chantry. Congratulations!”

“And in the eyes of the Dalish, with the Inquisitor as witness here today.” Dalish announced, before bending the city elf down to kiss her deeply with cries of encouragement from their audience.

“I’ll drink to that!” The Iron Bull bellowed, signaling for a very stressed looking Cabot and a line of assistants to arrive with platters of food and ale. 

The festivities swung into full gear as the noise level reached its peak with congratulations and revelry. Platters of food were left at their table, and as she had mentioned earlier, several were of Dalish origin. He recognized crickets fried in garlic, hearth cakes, and shanks of august ram meat that was spiced with wild herbs mixed with the usual tavern fare. 

“They look very happy together,” Ashanna murmured, her voice very close to his ear as she leaned towards him. He shivered, contemplating her hand that was still resting lightly in his own.  

“It is a good match,” Solas replied diplomatically, giving her hand a little squeeze. 

“I wanted....I…to say-”

He turned towards her, focusing his attention on her downturned eyes while he waited for her to collect her words. 

 

“Inquisitor!” The interruption startled the pair back to the person that had approached, her hand slipping out of his quite suddenly. Dalish stood before them, a broad smile on her face   

“Thank you for being witness to our ceremony. We could have had Skinner’s father do it, but as you know it is better if it is a Keeper, or First.  

“You’re welcome,  _ lethallan.  _ I didn’t know Skinner’s father is Dalish.” Ashanna asked, interest evident in the tone of her voice. 

“Oh, he’s not with them anymore, but still has all the trappings of one. He came all the way from Val Royeaux’s alienage to visit just for the wedding!” She pointed towards the main table, where Skinner conversed with an animated older elf. He wore the simple peasant clothes that were common among city elves, but there was no mistaking the dark blue vallaslin that highlighted his face even from this distance.  

He could feel the change in Ashanna as if it were a physical blow; all humor and curiosity faded in an instant as shrank back into her seat with eyes wider than the tavern’s dinner plates. 

_ “Abbae?”  _

Before anyone had time to react, she spoke again, louder this time.

“Put this man in the dungeons.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits: 
> 
> The dalish wedding vows come from my dear friend vir-ghilani's meta, which you can see [here!](http://vir-ghilani.tumblr.com/post/146785748708/ghilannain-enaste-var-aravel-i-shall-be-the-wind)
> 
> Thank you to my friends who helped beta and edit my work, PridetotheFall who owns Leona (from [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5111837/chapters/11760503) wonderful fic), and averagesparrow for the elvish translations in this chapter and future ones


	3. Ashanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some slight NSFW content.

The tavern grows very quiet as Ashanna gathers to her feet, slowly drawing herself up to her full height. She ignores the pointed stares of a hundred people all focused on her at that moment. Blackness pulses at the edges of her vision, but she raises her chin regardless.

“Inquisitor!” Skinner protests.  “Why are you-“

Skinner’s words end abruptly as several Inquisition soldiers rise to take a place at her side, hands on the hilt of their swords. Even here, in the drunken revelry they snap to her command with such ease it still surprises her.  

She stares at his feet. She cannot, _will not_ look at his face while it is staring at her. She will not look at him to confirm if the pigment of the blue in his vallaslin matches hers. A precise mixture of the indigo plant, white clay gathered from the beaches near Antiva City, and the blood of the People.

This man could not be him. It was another trick. Possibly a demon. She would have words with Cullen about it.

She won’t look, but it doesn’t stop her ears from twitching when he says only a single word in utter astonishment.

“ _Da’halla?”_

“Take him,” she repeats. Her voice sounds small to her own ears, but the soldiers obey and take him in hand. Once the tavern door slams shut the collective breath of air everyone holds is let out and the entire room is in an uproar. She is dimly aware of Skinner raging at her; all gnashing teeth and Orlesian swears and held back only by her newly wedded wife.

She sucks in a deep breath that caught instantly in her throat. Her chest burns as her body trembles, and it takes everything in her to remain standing. Her left hand tingles, and everyone is staring again. Shouting, pointing at her hand.  

Air. She needs to get out. She takes a shaky step backwards and turns, ignoring Skinner’s cries that turn even more heated. Before she can take even two steps, a jolt of pain shoots through her wrist and forces her to her knees. Green light spills from the jagged scar on her hand and fills the tavern. There are shouts of alarm and people rushing past her to the entrance at the display of magic, but she can barely see beyond the hair whipping around her face and the all too familiar crackle of a rift forming before her vision goes black.

 

***

_ She finds herself in a dark hallway. It is familiar, but when she tries to remember why the memory slips away like water running from her hand. The anchor burns and pulls her by force deeper into the depths of Skyhold while indistinct whispers slide down her spine like crawling insects.  _

_ She wants to wake up.  _

_ A spot of light in the distance catches the attention of whatever force is moving her. The whispers become excited; frenetic as they approach. Each step sends a tingle up her left arm that grows stronger as she nears the light. It hurts.  _

_ She wants to wake up.  _

_ The light is blinding and her arm is in agony. Voices drift by; not the whispers of whatever pains her but that of people talking. Singing. A baby crying and a song to soothe it back to sleep.  _

_ A human woman clutches the baby to her breast, singing a lullaby sung to her by her mother, and her mother before that. A song that was sung to newborns before the times of Andraste and the Maker and would protect from wicked spirits and demons.  _

_ She wants to wake up.  _

_ The woman is gone, the room is gone, the light is gone. Silence and agony is all that remains.  _

***

 

Ashanna surges upwards, throwing off a layer of blankets to clutch her arm closely against her chest with a pained cry. The magic of the anchor bubbles underneath the scar and courses through the skin and bone of her arm like hot little knives, over and over. It is not the first time it’s happened, and like the times before she covers her face with a pillow and screams until the pain slowly ebbs away to a dull ache. 

Several long minutes pass as she gasps to catch her breath and take in her surroundings. She is back in her room, and it It is still very dark outside. Wiping her damp forehead with her arm, she realizes she is still in the same clothing that she wore to the bonding ceremony.

She gets out of bed and strips, throwing the outfit into a pile of soiled clothing. It has been days since she allowed Skyhold’s servants into her rooms, and it is beginning to show. Cluttered piles of dishes and rotting food from the kitchens and other rubbish is strewn about the room. Paperwork is piled on the desk in stacks that have begun to spill over. She hasn’t looked at them since returning from Adamant.

The cool air hits her naked skin and she sighs from the relief, stretching and feeling her muscles pop pleasantly while goosebumps travel up her arms. The mark is still glowing with a dull light, but otherwise the pain has receded. She wanders to the expensive lacquered nightstand by the bed and retrieves a cylinder of rolled elfroot she’d prepared earlier in the day, before heading to the balcony. She shivers a little upon opening the doors, as the cold mountain wind greets her in full. A quick spark and the blessed herb is flowing into her lungs, sharp and sweet and warming her from the inside out. The trembling in her hands stop and she rests them on the balcony edge while she leans against it, staring in the direction of the prison; hidden by the walls of Skyhold.

Somewhere in the prisons, that man was there. The man that called her _da’halla_ and braided her hair with yellow ribbons and kissed her bruised knees as a child.

No. It was’t him. _It wasn’t._  

When the chill becomes too strong, she inhales the last drag and flicks the remainder of the rolled herb off the balcony. Inside her rooms, she rummages through a pile of clothing on the ground that is a mix of clean and dirty clothes. She finds a set of leggings and tunic that doesn’t have stains and sniffs them. Acceptable, though the tunic is a little too large and slips off the shoulder, as it was meant for a human man. No matter, its the cleanest thing she has at the moment.

Ashanna regrets not grabbing her cloak after leaving her rooms. Skyhold’s stone hallways do little to stop the chill. Still, they were mostly deserted at the late hour as most of its inhabitants were in the process of sleeping off their drunken stupor. Only a few people mill about the fortress, most of which bow their head respectfully as she passes.

How ridiculous it was, to see these humans bend their knees to the girl dressed in dirty clothing and smelling of burnt elfroot. If something divine had touched her, it could hurl itself back into the void for all the pain it caused her.

When she finds herself in front of the prison’s entrance, she is not surprised even though this had not been her destination. She pulls her shirt up over her shoulder, wishing again for the cloak that had been left behind. He was in there, she knew. She could confirm once and for all the man’s identity, and put a rest to her turbulent thoughts.

_But what if it was him?_

No, no no no. Not now, she can’t. Curling her hands into fists she turns on heel and returns back towards the fortress. She moves with purpose, sandaled feet gliding silently over the stonework as she cuts through the empty rotunda and into the hallways that lay beyond. Solas has a room in this part of Skyhold, and while she doesn’t know which is his, she feels for the small tingle of a mage’s aura reacting to her own. When she finds it, she knocks.

When Solas opens the door, he seems unsurprised to find her. The fact that she had interrupted his sleep was obvious in the tiredness that ringed his eyes and his lack of a shirt.

“Inquisitor. Is there a problem?”

“Not an immediate one. May I come in?”

He nods, moving aside to allow her to step into the room. He shuts the doors behind her and she does not miss the ripple in the air from a ward being set. Its purpose is unfamiliar to her.

“A simple sound ward,” Solas explains, as he noticed her staring. “Useless as it might be, I do much prefer the measure of privacy it affords me.”

“You were supposed to help my dreams tonight,” she says, the pain of the anchor still fresh in her mind. It comes out more accusatory than she intends.

He looks at her sharply before shaking his head in disapproval.

“You were unconscious after opening a rift in the tavern. I was not going to carry you to my private rooms in such a state.”

“Did you bring me to my own rooms instead?” She sits down on the small bed in the room, as it is the only piece of furnishing. Heat creeps up her neck at the thought of him walking through her mortifyingly filthy quarters.

“I accompanied some of Skyhold’s attendants to do so, yes.” He pauses, leaning against the doorframe. “Only to ensure the anchor’s flare up was temporary, and would not continue to cause further damage.”

Ashanna rubs her temples, feeling a slight twinge in her palm that causes her to shudder.

“It was bad tonight, then?” he asks gently.

“It has been every night since returning from the Western Approach.”  

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, merely watching her intently. The look on his face is troubled; eyes shadowed and mouth pulled into a tight line.

“The man you arrested, he was your father?”

Her back goes rigid, and she lowers her eyes, staring at the scars on the back of her knuckles.

“My father is dead. That man cannot be him.”

She opens her mouth to continue, but Solas speaks before she can.

“Stop. You don’t have to say any more if you do not wish to. I suspect you will have much to explain tomorrow, in any case. Perhaps some sleep would do you some benefit. With your permission, I can maintain a presence in your dream.”

She nods, grateful. She is so tired. The thought of sleeping through the rest of the evening without pain is a tempting one.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She reaches down to kick off her sandals, noting that Solas is still standing rather awkwardly before the bed.

“Why is your bed so small? Josephine would have given you a bigger room.”

“This suited my needs better, and I had not anticipated that I would be sharing it. If it makes you more comfortable, I can sleep on the floor.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ve slept in more cramped situations.”

He settles down into the bed, sliding in next to her as best he can in the small space. She is small herself however, and used to sharing sleeping spaces with half a dozen halla. With a bit of positioning,  the two of them manage to fit side by side. Perhaps mindful of the tension that she had created between them this past week, he makes no attempt to move closer to her space.

Perhaps that was best, for now.

She stares up at the ceiling that quickly grows dark as he waves a hand, removing the flame from the nearby torch. Darkness engulfs them, and the silence between them grows.

She reaches for his hand, pulling his fingers between her own. He says nothing, but his own hand squeezes hers gently before she finally drifts back into slumber.

 

***

Experiencing the Fade with a Dreamer was a far, far different experience than letting the anchor take her mind to dark places. She finds Solas waiting for her; hands clasped behind his back as he glides towards with with the ease of a man well accustomed to traversing the Fade.

“Hello,” he greets her.

“Hello,” she returns, glancing at their surroundings. Large arches line the stones of some undefined hallway of Skyhold, letting in light from outside that cast a peaceful glow across the room.

A nice change from the darkness and voices that had been her torment the past week.

“What area of Skyhold is this?” she asks.

“A wing that has long since crumbled to ruins. Though spirits still gather here, drawn to the memories of its inhabitants long gone. Look, you can see here, a memory lingers.”

She follows his movement, looking at a small globe of light that hovers in the hallway; curious wisps whirling around it in tandem. It is no bigger than her fist, but she can _feel_ something from it seeping deep into her bones. Sorrow and bitterness, lust and longing so strong it makes her flush.  

It expands when she touches it, engulfing the two of them in light.

 

***

“Lyle, this is most inappropriate,” Babette whispers, even as she hikes her many skirts up. “Anyone could walk by and see us!”

Lyle, loyal squire to her family and the love of her life runs his strong hands up her stockinged legs, making her shiver.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t excited by it,” he grins before yanking them down, ruining the delicate fabric in one quick move.

“You brute!” She cries, striking his shoulders with her fists. “Those were a gift from my grandmama!” When he licks the front of her silk panties, she cries out again for a much different reason.

“I am the wronged one,” he murmurs from between her legs, muffled underneath the many layers of skirts. “I must watch you entertain and dance with the _Lord Heir Fabron,_ the biggest prick to ever walk the halls of Chateau de Grand Montagne, knowing that it is his hand who will join yours in marriage.”

“Lyle please,” She curses the tears in her eyes, knowing the carefully applied kohl and shadow will start to run. “We’ve talked about this. I do not want to marry him.”

“But you will. Your family will see to that.” He sighs, letting out a huff of air that puffs right over her nethers. She moans, then claps her hands over her mouth. “Ah, but the Lord Heir does not have you quivering so like I do now; the pomp won’t even know how to please you like i do.” He pulls her silk underthings aside, sliding his thick workman’s fingers into her wet depths.

He groans as she lets out a wail. “Oh, my sweet Babette. I do love you so. Tell me you will never forget me, even when you are heavy with his children.”

“Never! I will run away with you,” she gasps, rocking on his fingers while tears stream freely from her eyes. “Fuck the Lord Fabron, and fuck my family. Void take them all! I only ever want you, my dear Lyle.”

“You tell the sweetest lies, my love,” Lyle smiles, before pressing his face back to its place between her legs to make her sing.

***

 

She wakes; nearly slipping off of the warm body she was laying on top of. Only an arm around her waist steadies her, until she can rest her weight onto her elbows and look down to find his face as flushed as hers must be. His eyes are dilated, color blooming in his cheeks and traveling all the way down his neck and chest and lower still. Her eyes snap back up to his lips, where his tongue darts out to wet them.

“I apologize,” he says hoarsely. “I did not anticipate we would come across a memory so-”

“Utterly and lasciviously Orlesian?” she finishes for him, delighting in the choked laugh it earned her. It always felt like a small victory when she was able to pull a laugh from him, and she can’t help but follow suit with one of her own; tears of mirth leaking from her eyes. She giggles, pressing her face into his collarbone. Her eyelashes flutter against his chest, and he shudders.

When she lifts her head again, he is staring intently at her. She is suddenly very aware of how close she is to his face, and the hard press of his body, and the very thin tunic that separates his bare chest from hers. His mouth opens, words on the tip of his  tongue. 

She interrupts whatever he was to say with a kiss. His lips still for a second only in surprise before he responds in full, hands reaching up to bury themselves in her hair as he pulls her into him. They have not kissed since that day on her balcony. Like every time before, her own cautious touch is consumed by the sheer force of his raw passion that he keeps hidden behind his calm exterior.

He is anything but calm now; she can feel his heart racing against her own chest as his tongue delves into her mouth and he feels _so hot_ against her she could burn alive at a moment’s notice. Her head is buzzing when his hand slides down to clutch the base of her neck and pull her closer to him. His mouth consumes her and it is all she can do to keep up; chasing his tongue with hers until he withdraws it to pull her bottom lip between his teeth.

Something tenses in her belly when his hands make a slow slide down her back to rest firmly on her rear. Her hips shift of their own volition so that they gently grind against him. The moan that escapes her when he presses up against her _just so_ is a shock that makes her pull back from his lips.  

He is aroused. As is she, to her great astonishment.

This was...nothing like before, with a member of the clan that had attempted courting her. His hands had roamed her flesh and pressed his body against hers, whispered her name and finished himself on her thigh while her mind wandered to her tasks that Deshanna had assigned her that day. It wasn’t an experience she had been in any hurry to repeat.

But with Solas between her legs and able to feel every inch of him pressing up against her, a sudden desire to ride him until they were both ragged with need rushed through her like a hot breeze.

She pants, breath suddenly quite short at the thought. She wants him.

But in the time since she pulled away she can already see his walls beginning to raise again; the raw need fading from his eyes and expression returning the the neutral expression she was so familiar with. She knows if she presses him he will likely buckle. For all that he carries himself as he is as desperate and starved for touch as anyone she knows. But he had asked for time, and she would not abuse the position of power she held over him.

She meets his lips again with hers; but it is a comforting touch rather than lustful, and lasts only a moment. He clears his throat and sits up, running a hand over the back of his scalp.

“You slept better this time, I hope?”

“I am not in pain, at least,” Ashanna agrees, watching as he reaches for his tunic and slides it over his head. She knows she needs to leave and meet with her advisers. They are most certainly going to be wanting an explanation for the previous day’s events. But she lingers still, not wanting to confront the reality quite yet.

“Solas, I wanted to apologize to you. For…my earlier actions the last few days. It is not my place to make any demands of your personal history. Especially one that was pulled from you against your will by a demon.”  

She expects his expression to look grateful, but his eyes shadow instead. A muscle in his face twitches, his mouth pulled so tight it makes his entire face look as serious as if he were contemplating one of the elven artifacts he’d been studying.

“I will listen, if you ever wish to talk about it,” she adds, hopping off of the bed and stepping into her discarded sandals.  

“I….thank you, _vhenan_ ,” he says softly. There is a world of hurt in his tone that she cannot begin to decipher. For every inch she gets closer to him, she feels like another gulf opens up. His expression becomes so distant she knows she has lost him to whatever memory still anchors him to his pain.

 

With a whispered goodbye she exits the room, heading towards her private quarters. For the first time in a week she feels rested. Relaxed, but without the weight of the fog in her mind. She wants to avoid the crowd that lingers out front her doors, hoping to catch a view (or a favor, more likely) from their beloved Herald. She instead takes a side entrance that takes her out of view of the main hallway, back to her own rooms. The smell that greets her makes her mouth twist.

Everything in her life was a mess, but perhaps she could at least get her room in order.

The soiled clothing is gathered and stuffed into a basket for the cleaning attendants, while the empty kitchenware is stacked and set neatly next to it. Once it is disposed of, it should help the smell in her room a great deal.

The castle’s cleaning staff knock on her door, at the same time they do every morning. Their surprise when she greets them is evident in the shock on their face, and they collect the dirty items and leave her with a tray of breakfast. Porridge with berries, a wedge of hard cheese, and a glass of freshly squeezed milk. She downs it all quickly while organizing the paperwork that has been languishing on her desk.

It is tedious work, but she lets her mind focus on the tasks at hand and not the man in the prison. She will be dealing with that soon enough.

She will have to go through the rest later, but for now she shoves the last bit of cheese in her mouth and chews while pulling out some of her finer wear; clothing that Josephine had delivered specifically for greeting nobility or other special visitors. She does not like it; the fabric is meant for show and not comfort, and the starched collar is too high and stiff against her neck. But it is more for a statement than for fashion, and what she needs right now. She dons the robe, and fastens the buckles on the jacket that hold the gilded insignia of the Inquisition in place on her chest.

When she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the large floor length mirror, she does not recognize herself. Her back is straight, head held tall and dark circles under her eyes are less pronounced. Making sure to comb the snarls from her hair, she takes a deep breath and opens the door to the grand hall.

 

She is unsurprised to see Skinner waiting outside her chambers, accompanied by a very harried looking Josephine.

“Inquisitor!” Skinner stalks right up to her, despite the ambassador’s protests. “I demand an audience with you. Why did you imprison my father?”

“Serah, I must protest! As I told you, you cannot make demands of the Inquisitor-”

“I will grant you an audience,” Ashanna interrupts, noticing that they are drawing a crowd. “Not here. Perhaps in the ambassador’s office?”

“Yes, that would be best,” Josephine agrees quickly, ushering the two of them down the hall into her private office. When the door is shut firmly behind them Skinner rounds back onto her.

“Inquisitor, explanation,” she demands again.

Ashanna straightens herself to her full posture, though Skinner still bests her in height by several inches. Folding her arms behind her she carefully considers the elf in front of her; eyes sliding over features with a critical eye.

“Before I answer your question you must answer mine. What do you know of that man?”

“What kind of question is that?” Skinner snaps, accent thick and almost intelligible in her anger. “He’s my ‘da as I told you. He made the visit from the Orlesian alienage for the bonding and I got all the papers approved through your people already!”

“Your father is Dalish?” She asks calmly, not allowing the other elf’s anger to affect her.

“He left his Clan ages ago. Hasn’t been a part of that lot for years.”

“Why did he leave?”

“I don’t know, he never talked about his time among the Dalish. Why, did you know him or something?”

“Was he involved in banditry while living in the alienage?”

“Maker, where are you getting this? The man kept goats, Inquisitor!”

Ashanna sucks in a deep breath.

“And he is your birth father? Are you absolutely certain?”

Skinner lets out an exasperated sigh. “As sure as my mother is naming him as my ‘da! I don’t know what things were like with your Clan, but they don’t pen out pedigrees for us elves in the alienages.”

Ashanna stares at her. The brown eyes, the gentle sloping of her cheekbones, the familiar ear shape. Pieces of him that had been staring her in the face for the past year since hiring the Chargers.

It was true then. He was here.

_Deshanna had lied to her._

And Skinner was…

“Is that enough for you, _Inquisitor?”_ Skinner snaps, bristling under her scrutiny. “Is this enough for you to let my father free?”

“That depends on him,” Ashanna answers coldly, nodding towards a very flustered Josephine. “Ambassador, if you could send word to the Spymaster to meet us in the dungeons? Skinner and I will be visiting the prisoner alone.”

“I...ah yes, of course. I will send word, Inquisitor Lavellan,” looking as flustered as she probably felt.

Skinner follows behind her as they make their way out of the fortress, the tension between them so strong she could feel it radiating behind her back.

“Are you going to explain what this is all about?” Skinner asks as they descend the stone steps leading out of the main keep.

“Did he ever tell you about his _vallaslin,_ Skinner?” she asks.

“His tattoos? Yeah, he got questions all the time about ‘em back home. They belonged to Ghilly whats-her-name, the halla mother.”

“ _Ghilain’nain,”_ Ashanna corrects, touching her forehead. “His are identical to mine, except for the stray mark under his chin when he sneezed during the ritual.”

“How do you know him?” Skinner asks.  

“Let us ask him that, shall we?” Ashanna says, failing to keep the bitterness from her voice as they approach the prisons. The guards outside stand to attention as they notice her arrival, and she clenches her fist tightly to relieve the stress she feels rising in her gut.

 

Going deeper into the dungeons is precarious; many of the steps are broken and in ill repair, and the entire stairwell is poorly lit. The two of them descend in silence, both stewing in their emotions and need for answers.

Arriving at his cell, Ashanna takes a deep breath to calm her pounding heart, remembering the breathing exercises Solas taught her so long ago back in Haven. They find him sitting with his head in his hands, that lifts up as he hears someone approaching. Familiar brown eyes look up to meet hers and widen.

_It is him._

“Da!” Skinner calls out, rushing towards the cell. “Are you okay?”

“I-I...I am well,” he stammers, taking the hands that she offers but his eyes not leaving Ashanna’s face. The urge to turn and flee is strong, and she digs her fingernails deep into the flesh of her palm.

“The Inquisitor has come to get you out of here,” she promises.

“The Inquisitor?” He addresses Ashanna directly, face paling. “You?”

“Hello father,” she says quietly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my friends who gave me some very welcome and needed feedback on this chapter


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